


Minor Edits

by umbrellastevenssayshello



Category: Peaky Blinders
Genre: F/M, Friends to Lovers, Historical References, Historically Accurate, Light Angst, Romance, Secretaries, Slow Burn, Witty Banter, hurting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-12
Updated: 2018-03-18
Packaged: 2019-03-30 14:43:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13953798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/umbrellastevenssayshello/pseuds/umbrellastevenssayshello
Summary: “Tommy, you can’t fucking go on like this.”“Fuck off, Ada.” Grace was fucking dead. He didn’t have time to think. At least he thought. Or didn’t think. See, this was why he had to keep fucking moving.“Tommy, I’m serious. Will you just stop for a moment and listen? Tommy, I’m leaving to work at this new Ripon office you’re so insistent on in two weeks. In two weeks, Tommy. And you still haven’t found a secretary.”“I don’t need a fucking secretary.”





	1. F**king Secretary

**Author's Note:**

> I'd just like to say something- when I say SLOW BURN, I mean slooooOOOOOOOW BUrn. I guess I've just read too many Tommy/OC stories that are really just a love letter to Cillian Murphy's profile in disguise. This relationship will be based on friendship and love, not lust.

“Tommy, you can’t fucking go on like this.”  
“Fuck off, Ada.” Grace was fucking dead. He didn’t have time to think. At least he thought. Or didn’t think. See, this was why he had to keep fucking moving.  
“Tommy, I’m serious. Will you just stop for a moment and listen?”  
Tommy sighed, coming to a stop as he whirled around to face her. “Listen to what?”  
Ada sighed. She was nervous, Tommy noted. For all her insistence that he stop for a fucking moment and listen, she didn’t seem to know exactly what she was going to say.  
“Tommy-,” she tried.  
Perhaps raising his eyebrows might prompt her. Or get her to shut the fuck up. Preferably the latter. “Well?”  
“Tommy, I’m leaving to work at this new Ripon office you’re so insistent on in two weeks. In two weeks, Tommy. And you still haven’t found a secretary.”  
“I don’t need a fucking secretary.”  
“No, you need a secretary you won’t fuck. Or fuck up. Honestly, what did you do to scare off that last candidate?”  
“Nothing.”  
Ada eyed him suspiciously. But it was true. He had done nothing, exactly. He’d simply decided he didn’t like her, and then steepled his fingers and gazed at her immovably, still as a statue, until she cracked. It wasn’t hard. (Actually, it was. He hated not moving.)  
She seemed to give up. “Fine. Alright.”  
“So no secretary?”  
“!- Tommy-,” Ada rubbed her temples. “I’m moving to fucking Ripon in two fucking weeks, and you’re not fucking helping.”  
Fuck this.  
“Look, fine.” He stretched his arms out in surrender, trying to both pacify her and make sure he didn’t look a total sod in front of the passing maid. Damn this staff. Why did he ever move in here? Because he couldn’t fucking stop moving, that was why. Fuck, now his train of thought was off again. “Fine. Alright? I’ll get a secretary.”  
“Yes, you will.” Ada’s arms dropped to her side, a new look of determination taking over from the helplessness that was there a moment ago. “Because I’ve found one even you can’t scare off.”  
Oh, wonderful. He sighed. “Ada, you can’t-,”  
“Oh, yes I can. Because otherwise you’ll postpone it until I’m gone. Then nothing will get done as befits a rising member of society- a rising member of society, Tommy,” Ada said, raising her voice slightly to cover his half-hearted protests. “We need people to think- to believe you’re going places, and it won’t happen if they find your handwriting all over the most menial papers. So I’ve found you a secretary-,” she slammed a folder against his chest, transferring it from her to him, “you’re not going to partake in any activities with her involving the word fuck-,” another folder- “and you will fool this country into believing you’re an honest man.”  
There went all his loopholes.  
Ada smiled at him and turned to leave. “Good.”  
Tommy strode towards the staircase as Ada climbed on up- to pack, presumably. “Does this fuck-banned secretary have a name?”  
Ada paused, leaning over the railing. “Emma Wolsworth. She arrives tomorrow.”  
A thought occurred to Tommy. “Ada, I’m not having some fucking spinster in my fucking office.”  
“I thought we weren’t fucking?”  
A vaguely disturbed-sounding voice drifted down from the gallery. “What the bloody hell is happening here?”  
“Oh, hello, Aunt Polly,” Ada called up. “I promise this has nothing to do with incest.”  
“How very reassuring,” Tommy muttered. Ada glared at him.  
“Well, I’m going for a walk. No, don’t try to explain,” Polly said as Tommy’s mouth opened, “your highly- shall we say creative?- uses of the word fuck are no concern of mine.”  
Tommy groaned, tugging at his hair as Polly brushed past him on her way out. “Ada, I’m serious. She stays out of my office.”  
“Yes, I know,” Ada admitted. “Honestly, did you not notice the extra desk in the hallway?”  
“What-,”  
“It’s right beside you.”  
“Oh.”  
“I’m going up now.”  
“Yes, please do.”

* * *

Plain black shoes quietly crossed the gravel in the early morning mist, disappearing near the back of Arrow House. A knock cut through the morning stillness; three sharp raps on the door.  
“You must be Emma Wolsworth.”  
The woman whirled around, to come face to face with a horse. Or rather, a horse and rider.  
“I am. May I ask who you are?”  
“Thomas Shelby.” Tommy slid off the black mare and led it over to one of the stable hands. Fucking stable hands. He had fucking stable hands.  
What would his father say?  
Probably something about needing a drink.  
The quiet noise of gravel crunching followed him, letting him know his fucking secretary- no, his non-fucking secretary (fuck-free secretary? Anti-fuck secretary? Yes, that was good.) was following him. Having delegated the care of the handsome horse to the stable hand- no, he wasn’t getting into that again- he turned to face her again.  
“You are Thomas Shelby.”  
“Yes.”  
“Then you are my employer.” A hand, small, pinched and white from the cold, stuck out from a plain black sleeve to meet his. He took a moment to look her over. Plain black hat. Sensible clothing. He could see why Ada had picked her out. She looked like the least likely person to crack under pressure.  
Then again, so had Jane Ripson. (That was before he stared at her perhaps a bit too long.)  
His hand met hers. A brief shake, quick and professional and polite.  
“The plan was for you to arrive at noon.”  
“Plans often change, do they not?”  
“They do.” He already wanted to get away from her, to get away from how normal she seemed. Grace was fucking dead. Nothing was fucking normal. Nothing should be. “Ada will show you around. I’ll send her down.”  
“Much appreciated.” She seemed to understand the implication, which she should stay in the servants’ quarters, and not to be offended by it. Good.  
He strode away from her, long strides carrying him away from her and how normal she seemed.  
He fucking hated her already.  
Emma turned away from him. He seemed civil, if not particularly nice, and that and a steady job was enough for her. Lifting her black-gloved hand, she knocked again.  
A few moments later, the door opened. A maid. “Yes?”  
“Emma Wolsworth.” She stuck out her hand again. “I’m the new secretary here.”  
“Are you.” The maid eyed her up and down suspiciously as she stepped back to let her in. “Why’re you down here?”  
“I was told to wait here.”  
“On his bad side already, eh?”  
Emma waited.  
The maid nodded, accepting her silence as answer enough. “Right then. I’m Madge. There’re two other maids, Alice and Anna.”  
Emma’s mouth quirked up. “Alliterating names.”  
Madge stared.  
Emma cleared her throat. “Right, well, I suppose I’ll wait here, shall I?”  
“Mind you do, and that you don’t go wandering off.” Madge eyed her suspiciously. “I’m off, I’ve got real work to do. You say Miss Shelby’s meeting you?”  
“I am.” A clear voice cut through the tension in the air as a well-dressed woman Emma assumed was Miss Shelby stepped through the doorway. “Madge, you may go.”  
Madge bowed and scuttled off.  
“Miss Shelby.” Emma stuck out her hand. “Pleasure to meet you.”  
“Likewise.” Ada smiled. She was pretty, Emma noted, and her earring and lipstick were at odds with Emma’s plain, unbejeweled face. “Please, call me Ada.”  
“I couldn’t possibly, Miss Shelby. It would be unprofessional.”  
Ada accepted this with a nod. “Come.” 

“You’re in for a quite a challenge,” called Ada over her shoulder as she led Emma up the stairs into the main hall. “Tommy’s an enigma to all that know him, and unattainable to all who don’t. Thomas Shelby, I mean,” she clarified. “Your employer. You won’t have met him yet-,”  
“I did, actually. Our paths crossed this morning. He was riding, it seems.”  
“Yes.” Ada’s expression became guarded. “He often rides in the morning.”  
There was something more here. No matter. She was a secretary, not a spy. Emma nodded. “Where shall I work?”  
Ada gestured to the small desk. “I’m leaving you the typewriter and there’s some paper in the drawer, but you shall have to provide the rest.”  
“Of course.”  
“I’m moving to Ripon in two weeks; it’s why Tommy needs a new secretary.”  
“You were his secretary?” Emma was surprised. “A family business, then.”  
“You don’t know the half of it.” Ada huffed.


	2. Mr. Shelby Sr.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tommy is done. Arthur is drunk. Polly and Michael just want to get work done. Ada is off doing.... something, and Emma is confused.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been planning and outlining; I thought I was going to post a new chapter every Monday from now on. And guess what? I've only got halfway through the plot, and I've already got 14 weeks. :) So now it's Monday and Thursday. Next update: 3/22/2018

“You must be the new secretary.”

Emma looked up. A pleasant-looking man stood there, beside a sharp-eyed middle-aged woman, who seemed to have been the one speaking.

“I am.” She rose. “Emma Wolsworth. Can I help you?”

“No, but Tommy can.” The man was speaking, this time. He looked her over. “Tell him Michael Gray and Polly Shelby are here to see him.”

“Ah, yes.” She rose from her desk, knocking at the library door. A muffled “Come in!” reached her ears, and she opened the door slightly.

Mr. Shelby was sitting at his desk- at least she assumed it was a desk. It was a little hard to tell, what with it being almost completely covered with various papers.

“Mr. Shelby?”

Tommy groaned, leaning back in his chair. “Who is it _now_?”

“Ms. Shelby and Mr. Gray.”

“Send them in.”

“Yes, sir.”

Emma disappeared from view as Polly and Michael strode into his office; Polly with sure grace, Michael treading lightly. “Tommy,” Michael nodded, taking a seat. Polly said nothing.

Tommy blew out a long breath, leaning back in his chair. “What is it?”

 

* * *

 

Thomas Shelby was exhausted.

He wanted nothing more than to go upstairs and sink into his bed. Just- close his eyes- and tune everything out for a few hours.

Of course, it wasn’t that simple.

There were monsters in his mind; monsters like a woman eerily similar to Grace with a red rose of blood blossoming on her chest. Monsters like the noise of shovels, of panting, gunshots and blood mixed with the mud. It was ironic, now he thought of it; the very earth they were fighting to save had been suffocating them.

He groaned, resting his head against the desk as Polly and Michael left the room.

 

* * *

 

Emma thought this was easily the most confounding simple job she’d ever done.

She patched calls through to him, brought in his mail, kept records of everything, and reminded him of his appointments. She called to schedule meetings and filled out basic paperwork. And yet, the man was truly a mystery. She’d usually fallen into a certain rhythm with her employers. Mr. Green had been her first. He had constantly belittled her, and while she’d hated him, the pay was good. So she’d stayed until she’d been poached off of him by Mr. Ripson, whose daughter, Jane, had run away from home to get away from the posh life she abhorred. Apparently, Emma reminded him of her, so he both simultaneously hated and loved her.

No such thing with Thomas Shelby.

He was just… cold.

The family business made it hard to know what to call each member of the family. She couldn’t very well call them by their Christian names; it would be tantamount to professional suicide. Finally, she settled on a system. There was Mr. Gray; he was easy. Having two Miss Shelbys was a struggle as the elder wasn’t married; so there was no Mrs./Ms to distinguish them. Finally, she settled on Miss Shelby and Miss Shelby Jr. Better to belittle the youngest, she thought, than insult the eldest.

She decided on something similar for the- brothers? Mr. Shelby was her employer. Mr. Shelby Sr. was his harmless-seeming older brother, and the fiery younger one was Mr. Shelby Jr. It seemed to work fairly well.

Emma sighed, shuffling the papers on her desk. She glanced at the clock.

 

* * *

  If only the hands of it would move faster, Tommy thought.

* * *

  The passage of time had always felt too slow to her.

* * *

 Perhaps it had something to do with his eternal restlessness.

* * *

She was good at hiding it. 

* * *

 He knew he was rubbish at hiding it.

* * *

Emma glanced at her watch again. Sighing in relief, she stood, gathering up her folders and locking the drawers. She knocked at the office door, waited, and entered. As always, she had to keep her eyes focused on her employer as opposed to letting them show her wonderment at the sheer amount of _books_ in the office.

“Mr. Shelby?”

“What is it?”

“It’s eight o’clock.”

“In the morning?”

Emma frowned. “At night, sir.”

He looked up. “How fascinating. Thank you for informing me. You may, however, be surprised to know that I too can tell the time off a clock.”

She suppressed a sigh. “I was wondering if I might be dismissed.”

“Do I have any meetings tomorrow?”

“No, sir.”

“Wrong.” Mr. Shelby threw down his pen, striding to where he had discarded his suit jacket and swinging it around to slip it up his arms. “I do. At seven.”

“In the morning?”

His jacket on, he looked up at her, exhaling a breath of smoke. “At night.”

“Right.”

She waited.

So did he.

“Sir?”

“Yes ?”

“May I go?”

He seemed distracted. “Yes, yes. Be off with you.”

“Thank you, sir.”

* * *

“AH, EMMA! WONDERFUL TO SEE YOU!”

Emma started, leaping to her feet as a seemingly very inebriated Mr. Shelby Sr. barreled into the kitchen. The echo of footsteps running resonated down the hallway behind her, and Alice burst into the room. “What’s happened!”

“A MAID, A MAID FOR MY LOVE!” belched Mr. Shelby Sr. “What brings two such LOVELY ladies to a servants’ hall?”

Emma and Alice exchanged a glance.

“Mr. Shelby,” Emma tried gently. “I believe you’re drunk.”

Lurching to his feet, swaying precariously, Mr. Shelby glared at her. “I- AM- NOT!”

“Mr. Shelby-,”

“I-,”

“Mr. Shelby-,”

“AM-,”

“Mr. Shelby, please-,”

“NOT!-,”

“Mr. Shelby, please don’t raise your voice.” Emma held up her hands, trying to pacify him.

“Mr. Shelby-,”

Arthur Shelby pointed a thin finger at her. It was shaking slightly, Emma noted. Alice, who stood behind her, was _definitely_ shaking. Her employer’s brother seemed disturbed at the _thought_ of being drunk, but not at being it himself? Why? Perhaps a history of alcoholism?

“Mr. Shelby, of course you’re not drunk,” she soothed, trying to stay calm, and _wishing_ Alice would wipe that petrified look off her face.

“Good… good.” He straightened up, sighing. “Well, if I’m not drunk, I can have another drink, can’t I?” He plunked himself down in a chair. “Oy, yer… maid. Bring me a drink, will you?”

Alice hesitated. Emma shook her head at her discreetly.

“Oy! I said a drink? Please?” What Emma thought could possibly pass as a look of cunning dashed across his face. “Come on, love. I’ll give you the day off tomorrow.” He spread his arms, gesturing wildly. “You can _all_ have the day off! Everyone!”

That had Alice scuttling for the wine cellar key. Emma followed her with one last look at Mr. Shelby Sr., hissing, “What are you _doing?_ ”

“You heard him.” Alice unhooked the cellar key, fairly bounding down the steps and fitting in the key. “We can have a day off tomorrow.”

“He’s drunk.”

“That isn’t my fault. Bordeaux or Madeira?”

“Neither!” Emma sighed. “I can’t believe this.”

“Bordeaux, then.” Alice whirled around to face her. “Yes, isn’t it wonderful?”

“No!” hissed Emma. “It isn’t! You’re taking advantage of him!”

Alice hesitated.

“Oy!” A definitely slurring voice drifted down the cellar steps. “Where’s that drink?”

“Sorry, Emma,” whispered Alice guiltily, then ran back up the steps.

Emma threw up her hands, turning to follow.

* * *

Tommy frowned, regarding the empty decanter discontentedly.

He distinctly remembered telling the maids to replace it before he returned each morning.

Sighing, he went to the bell-rope and gave it a yank. Where were those bloody maids? Damn it, he needed a smoke.

“Sir?”

He looked up, in the process of lighting his cigarette. His secretary- Anti-fuck- was standing in the doorway, looking uncertain. “Yes?” He asked, suppressing a sigh. “What is it now?” His secretary opened her mouth, but he cut her off. “I said seven _at night,_ you know.”

“Yes, sir.” She seemed to hesitate. “The thing is… you rang?”

Tommy had to stop himself from rolling his eyes. “For a _maid_.”

Again, the hesitation. “There are no maids.”

He squinted, exhaling smoke. “What?”

“Mr. Shelby Sr. gave them all the day off.”

“Arthur?” Tommy pulled out his chair, plunking down on it. “Why would he do that?”

“I believe he was drunk.”

Tommy groaned, dropping his head into his hands. “Of course he did. Right, well. Never mind then.”

“Was there something you needed?”

“Whisky.”

“I can do that.” Stepping inside, his secretary strode over to the table that held the decanter in its tray, and lifted it up. “I’ll bring the mail in with it, shall I?”

“Yes, very good.” Leaning back, he regarded her curiously. “Why didn’t Arthur give _you_ the day off?”

“He tried.” She was shifting the tray’s weight now, and took a moment to look up at him with a wry semi-smile.

“And?”

She inclined her head. “I take my orders from a different Mr. Shelby.”

Tommy considered this. He had to admit, it was a clever move; whoever this woman was again, she was implying her loyalty and making a play for trust. But Ada was no fool; she wouldn’t have picked someone without a thorough background check. She wasn’t, however, him. She didn’t have some of his assets- namely his connections. “What did you say your name was?”

“Wolsworth.” A curtsey- or something like it. She was, after all, holding a tray of tumblers and decanters. “Emma Wolsworth.”

“Right. Well.” He nodded towards the decanter. “It isn’t going to fill itself.”

“Of course, sir.” Another semi-curtsey, another wry semi-smile, and then the sound of the door clicking closed. Tommy sprang up and, striding across to the door, pressed his ear against it until he was sure her footsteps had receded.

Moving back to his desk, he sat down in the chair, adjusting his gun holster. Then he picked up the phone.

“Operator? Give me the Garrison, in Small Heath, Birmingham.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there we have it!
> 
> Historical Notes: The chain of command from most powerful to least powerful in a house like Arrow House, which is where the middle class would have resided, would be THE RESIDENT FAMILY, reigning over the entire staff. Within the staff, however, there would be levels. First there would be the BUTLER; then the COOK. Then the VALETS and the LADY'S MAIDS, who were the ones who dressed and who undressed the family. (In S3E2, we see Grace's LADY'S MAID dressing her for the charity ball. Grace also references her lady's maid in S3E1 when she says "There are things if I take off I can't get back on again." This is a reference to the need for a lady's maid to help her get dressed. It may seem silly, but for the clothes they had then, it was actually a necessity. Now, in the 1800s they had TEA GOWNS. These were simple yet elegant dresses ladies could take on and off by themselves; they were notorious for the role they played in the ladies having affairs, as they couldn't have sex without their lady's maids knowing otherwise.) Then the HOUSEMAIDS, who cleaned, the FOOTMEN, who served at table- in a small house like Arrow, there would probably be two maids and one footman, as the butler and valet could also serve at table- and finally, the KITCHEN and SCULLERY MAIDS. However, in Peaky Blinders we often see maids walking around, which would never have happened with the real middle class; of course, the Shelbys made their fortune themselves instead of inheriting, so they would be looked down upon. (Reverse of today.) They would also likely dispense with the regular change of command. It is likely they only have a cook, if that, and a couple of maids and a footman, none of the other stuff. There would be servants' quarters for these people; secretaries would normally not be in the chain of command, but as Emma works directly with Mr. Shelby, she would likely be at the same level in the chain of command as a valet; which means she would need permission from either the butler or Mr. Shelby HIMSELF to leave. To my knowledge, there is no butler; therefore, this chapter makes historical sense.  
> Also, I reference a "green baize door." In the show, we never see what connects the servants' staircase to the main building, so I drew inspiration from Highclere Castle (my personal favourite, look it up it's beautiful) where the main hall, which is overlooked by the gallery, contains a green baize door that leads to the servants' hall. In case you didn't know, baize is the rough, dark green cloth used to cover billiard tables; so a baize door would be a oak door covered in it.  
> I also speak of a "bell rope." Houses like these would have a "bell board:" namely, whatever room you were in, you could pull a rope, and the bell board in the servants' hall would show in which room you were needed.
> 
> NEXT UPDATE: 3/22/2018


	3. Impromptu Servitude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tommy is sick of Russians. Princess Tatiana has an Agenda, capital A. Emma is nervous and hesitant, and Arthur, Polly, Michael, Ada and John could not have picked a worse time to be away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh dear. Well, here we go. Not entirely happy with this one.

“Right. Well, thanks, Jack. No, no. Yes. Alright. Yes, goodbye.” Tommy blew out a breath, hanging the phone back on its hook. The wretched inventions did have their uses, he had to admit. Leaning back in his chair, he lit a cigarette, glancing at the time. 

* * *

“Princess.”

“Now, now, Tommy. Surely we are past that?”

“Past what, Princess.”

“How cold you are.”

“I could have said the same about you as you watched my wife die. Enjoying the show, were you?”

He’d lost control, let his voice become something low and threatening. But the Princess’s lips just curved into a blood-red smile, as if she’d _won._ But in the end, hadn’t she? Grace was dead. _Damn cursed gypsy sapphire._ And damn his own idiocy, in giving it to her.

“You must love it here.”

Tommy had no fucking idea what she was talking about, and he couldn’t care less. He was more concerned with getting her out of his house.

“All these servants, at your every beck and call.”

“Yes.” He stared at her blankly, exhaling a long breath of smoke. “It’s heaven.”

That tinkling laugh, so different from the one Grace used to keep hidden and show only him.

“Call a maid.”

“Why?”

“Do it.”

“No.” Tommy was sick of her games.

Tatiana widened her eyes. “Call a maid, Thomas Shelby.”

He wouldn’t let her see him out of control. He wouldn’t. He wouldn’t see that _fucking_ smirk-

“They are not available.”

“None of them?” A tilt of her head. “Now why would that be? What a shame. I rang for a maid just now.”

“None of your fucking business.” Tommy exhaled a long breath of smoke. “They are out.”

“Clearly not all.”

Tommy spun around. Oh, thank goodness. One of the maids had returned early. Had he spoken to her earlier? Her curtsy seemed a little familiar.

“We do not need anything.” Tatiana’s voice was cold.

Tommy cleared his throat. He had to assert his authority, damn it. He wasn’t going to let her take control of the situation.

Tatiana continued on, her lips quirked up. “Yes, do leave us two alone.” she fairly purred, turning to Tommy,

The maid curtsied, turning to leave.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

The maid froze.

“I- I’m sorry, Mr. Shelby,” she said.

Tommy felt a rush of appreciation for whatever godsend had made the maid meek enough to create precisely the intended effect. He sneaked a glance at Tatiana, glad to see the glint of surprise in her eyes. The maid still stood to attention. He walked over, seizing her chin in his hand and jerking her face towards him.

“From now on,” he said, and this time the low, threatening tone of voice he used was fully intentional, “you obey only _my_ orders.”

“Yes, sir.” It came out as a scared whisper.

“Good.” He let her go, having to suppress his smile. “Go.”

* * *

He watched as she loaded the tumblers onto the tray. “You would have made an excellent actress.”

“So would you, sir, if I may be so bold.” Her lips quirked up slightly as she turned to face him. “I barely knew you’d recognized me.”

“You made a very convincing terrified maid.”

“And you made an excellent tyrannical employer.”

Tommy raised an eyebrow. “What makes you think it was just an act?”

Again, that thoughtful incline of the head. “You pay me well; you treat me fairly. You’ve been a flawless employer thus far.”

He watched her for another moment. She balanced the tray and turned to face him. “Is that all?”

“No.” He leaned back in his chair, lighting a cigarette. “I looked you up, you know.”

“Oh.” She seemed a little surprised, but not necessarily taken aback. “May I inquire as to what you found?”

"Right. I've been asking around, Miss Wolsworth, and almost no one knows a damn thing about you."

Oh.

"In my experience, a person is either untraceable because they've done something they need to erase, or because they don't exist."

"Neither." Emma blurted.

Her employer raised a disbelieving eyebrow. "Ah. Well," he cleared his throat, leaning back, "I suppose I'll just take your word for it, shall I?"

Emma was at a loss.

"Shall I tell you what I think, Miss Wolsworth?" Mr. Shelby leaned forwards, planting his hands on either side of his desk. "I think there IS no 'Emma Wolsworth.' I think you have an agenda, and it isn't the one you keep for reminding me of my appointments."

"Then you'd be wrong, sir," Emma said, keeping her voice distinctly clear, nodding her head slightly. "I am Emma Wolsworth and I always have been. I am simply... unremarkable."

"Miss Wolsworth, shall I be frank? I don't believe you." Mr. Shelby stood, moving to stand by the window. "If you are not who you say you are, may I suggest leaving? Now. The door, as you see, is open. I won't follow you- I won't even try. But, Miss 'Wolsworth'-," when he turned around there was a gun in his hands, and he turned it around slowly, cocking it and aiming it at a point on the wall slightly to the left of her. Emma shuddered to think how easily that could change. "if you are not," He cocked his head.

The threat needed no voice. It was audible enough.

"So I ask you for the last time- is there anything. About. You."

_There is something to be said for silence._

Emma said those words to her family at dinner when she was seven. She would then proceed to shut her mouth and say absolutely nothing for the next three years. _'A nice girl, but not quite right_ _in the head.'_ Emma got used to hearing those words, spoken by adults in hushed tones, and often accompanied by side glances at her where she stood nearby. It was funny, she had thought. Since she stopped talking, she had almost become invisible. For one, her friends had abandoned her. She didn't mind- she'd thought them uncommonly slow. But the adults had surprised her. She had expected to be treated warily. On the contrary, Emma found they took little care that she should not hear them. Secure in their knowledge that she could not repudiate their sordid gossip, they audibly masticated each morsel of scandal to be found in Yorkshire. Yet should another child approach, it became little-pitchers-have-big-ears.

Emma learned more in one summer about human nature that many of her village playmates would ever know in all their lives.

Then one night, when she was ten, the gossip turned to Emma herself. Emma listened, amused, as the old hags carelessly debated her sanity and future. Her amusement ended the moment she the look on her mother's face. Mrs. Wolsworth looked close to tears.

Her face set, Emma had walked out into the group as they noticed her presence for the first time.

"Now, stop this at once," she demanded indignantly. "You're upsetting my Ma."

Silence fell through a cloud of shock as each tried to recall what, exactly she had said.

_Why did you do it?_

If Emma had tuppence for each time she'd been asked that question, she would have used it to buy a ticket to America a long time ago.

And whenever she was aske, she would clamp her lips together and shake her head. Let them think what they liked. If she had told them the reason, they would never have believed her.

Her reason was very simple.

She chose to say nothing because she had nothing to say.

Emma would later go on to say that those three years were the best of her life. She had learned more about herself than she had thought was possible. For one, she had realized her own thoughts were vastly more interesting than listening to others trying to articulate theirs. She also found that she had the ability to be utterly unnoticeable, and she liked it.

From then on, Emma made it her life's goal to be forgettable. Unremarkable. Normal.

Then came the war.

And suddenly Emma was in Ripon, training to be a nurse. Then she was walking through the doors of Highclere Castle in her uniform: then she was listening as Lord Carnarvon explained his plan to temporarily transform the private house into a temporary convalescence home for officers- and Emma was working harder than she ever had before.

And for the first time in her life, someone noticed.

Then she was head nurse, and a decision regarding a man's life had to be made. And all eyes turned to her.

 _Alright,_ she thought, _so I'm not invisible. So I'm a leader now. What do I do?_

The answer was simple. Most answers, she found, were.

_Lead._

So she did. And for the first time in her life, she felt she had a purpose.

And Emma liked it. She liked saving these men and helping them survive. She split her time between the convalescing officers and the men in critical condition in the hospital, and slowly felt herself falling into a rhythm, belonging for the first time.

Then, Vittoria Veneto.

All the nurses gathered and cried tears of relief, because the war was over. Then they cried because the nursing was over, too.

Emma wandered down to the hospital with her neatly folded uniform a week later. Someone took it from her and she sat on one of the made beds and looked around. She thought of the nurses: some rich ladies returning to lives of choosing clothes and paying calls, some young women returning to middle-class families or farms.

The question was: should she once again drape herself in invisibility, or make something of herself?

Once again, the answer was simple.

Emma, amid protests from family and entreaties to become a housemaid, got a job as a shop clerk. She saved up and bought a typewriter. She took a correspondence course. Emma learned Pittmans' and shorthand. She applied for her first job and packed her trunk.

"Miss Wolsworth?"

She looked up. Swallowing, she answered as simply as she could.

"No, sir. Nothing." 

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical Note: Interestingly enough, Lord and Lady Carnarvon were indeed real people who resided in Highclere Castle up in Yorkshire. And they did indeed turn it into a convalescence home; temporarily, of course. I told you Highclere was my favourite; I just had to squish this in somewhere. I'm bending the rules a bit here; when rung for, a footman would show up, not a maid. However, if it was late enough, a maid just might. At night, though, it'd probably just be a hall boy. But the plot needed Emma to show up, so she did. 
> 
> Next update on 3/26/2018. Mark your calendars!


	4. From Wolsworth To Emma

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things get steamy at the end of this chapter. Just not in the way you'd think.

Slowly, the days ticked by, one by one. And Emma settled into a rhythm, just like she always did. She was proud of how calm she’d been with a gun pointed at her head. It was this pride that put a new surety in her step and a sharpness into the lift of her chin.

 “Mr. Shelby?”

“Yes?”

“A Mr. Changretta to see you.”

“Send him in.”

Ten minutes later, a scream, shrill and piercing, punctuated the morning silence, followed by a deafening crash.

Emma strode as quickly as she could across the hall towards the office door, crossing the hall as Mr. Gray came downstairs. “What’s happened?” he asked. “Was that you?”

“No, sir. I don’t know, sir,” Emma pushed open the door to see an irritated-looking Mr. Shelby pointing a gun at Mr. Changretta’s head. Alice, the maid (and presumably the source of the noise) stood not five feet away. Her eyes glittered with fear, and her hands were clapped over her mouth. A tray lay at her feet where she must have dropped it, holding a now-broken decanter and three chipped tumblers. Whisky was spreading like molasses along the floorboards. Emma sighed and turned to Alice. “Alice, take this sorry mess down to the kitchens and throw it away. Get Anna to come and clean this up. Honestly!”

Alice stared at her. Emma made a gesture indicative of her impatience, and Alice scurried off. Ignoring Mr. Gray’s expression of amusement, Emma turned to face her employer, who still had a pistol pointed at his guest’s head. “Terribly sorry, sir. It won’t happen again.” She was unable to resist adding in, “and if you’re going to shoot that gentleman, might I suggest doing it against the window, not the bookcase? They are _so_ much easier to clean.”

Mr. Gray huffed a laugh from behind her. Even Mr. Shelby’s eyes glittered in amusement. “Duly noted.”

“Very good.” Emma curtsied and stepped back into the hall, taking a seat at her desk. Ms. Shelby stopped by her desk. Emma rose again. “I heard a scream,” said the elder Ms. Shelby.

Emma curtsied. “Yes. Alice found Mr. Shelby pointing a gun at his guest.”

“Oh, for the love of…,” the sharp-eyed woman rolled her eyes, striding into the office.

The corner of Emma lips quirked up almost imperceptibly.

 

Emma bent over her desk, absorbed in the work she was doing.

Mr. Shelby had inexplicably called in and given her the strangest instructions. He had given her a letter written to him by a certain Russian official, a letter written in his own hand to himself by the Russian official, and a blank sheet of paper.

“You have a very fine hand,” he had said, flipping through some note collations she had done for him.

Unsure, Emma had replied, “Thank you, sir.”

“You told my sister you taught yourself?”

“I did, sir.” Emma curtsied. “I would look at books and try to imitate their script.”

“Right, so here’s what I want you to do.” Mr. Shelby had brought his hands up and slammed them down on the desk, using them as leverage to stand up. He’d thrust the papers at her and ordered her out.

He’d seemed unusually jovial, she noted to herself as she carefully formed each letter. She’d first recopied the entirety of the original letter for practice, then neatly copied each letter- A-Z, capital and lowercase- in the Russian official’s hand, guessing at the letters she couldn’t find. She had just started forming the capital D of _Dear Mr. Shelby_ on the paper Mr. Shelby wanted her to use, her concentration such that, bent over her desk, entirely focused on her work, she didn’t notice the methodical clip-clop of heels on the wooden floor, heading towards her. Even when they came to a stop, she thought nothing of them until a voice spoke.

“Do you have a minute?”

With difficulty, Emma tore her gaze away from the page, slowly lifting her eyes to see Ms. Shelby, the middle-aged woman who had been exasperated over her nephew’s behaviour, standing there looking down at her. Jumping to her feet, she curtsied and stood still, nervously fidgeting with her dress. “Of course, miss.”

“Good. Sit.” Polly Shelby pulled a chair from somewhere and plunked it down opposite Emma, taking a seat. Nervously, Emma too took a seat. Ms. Shelby nodded towards what she was doing. “And what’s that?”

“Oh…,” Emma glanced nervously down at the work she’d been doing. “Mr. Shelby asked me to recopy a letter for him.”

Ms. Shelby lifted an eyebrow, long and supercilious. “Recopy? Word-for-word?”

Emma squirmed. “Well, no. Some of the words are different.”

“Some?”

“All,” Emma confessed.

Ms. Shelby’s mouth quirked up ever so slightly. “So basically, you’re _forging_ a letter.”

“Yes.”

Ms. Shelby tilted her head, gazing at a spot on the wall to Emma’s far left. “Quite the secretary.”

Emma stiffened almost imperceptibly. This wasn’t just a casual conversation, then. “Ma’am? Was there something you wanted to discuss?”

Ms. Shelby ignored her. “Quite the secretary.” She turned her intent gaze squarely on Emma, who met her gaze as calmly and evenly as she could. “First you dress up as a maid….”

Emma couldn’t keep a flicker of surprise off her face at Ms. Shelby’s knowledge of the incident. Ms. Shelby nodded in acknowledgement of it, continuing, “then you show no visible discomfort to having a gun pointed at your head. You then witness your employer threaten a visitor with a gun, and your only reaction is to ask him to shoot him in a different location. And now…” Ms. Shelby rose half to her feet, leaning over the desk to inspect Emma’s work. “You’re quite convincingly imitating a Russian delegate.”

Emma kept her voice and body steady. “You’re very well informed.”

A “yeah, well,” nod. Then all of a sudden Ms. Shelby’s interlocked hands were on the edge of Emma’s desk, and she was standing. Emma, too, sprang to her feet. They stood there for a moment, almost squaring off. Ms. Shelby, Emma noted, was slightly taller than her. Then Ms. Shelby stepped back, briskly seizing the chair and returning it to whatever corner of the hall it’d been in originally. Emma fidgeted, following her with her eyes. Ms. Shelby strode back to the desk. “I’ll make this simple.”

“Ada says she’s screened you, and she’s a Shelby. Shelbies trust Shelbies. Always.”

Emma nodded. “Very reasonable.”

“No, it’s not. It’s fucking insane. But it’s true. You know what else is true?”

Emma kept her voice calm. “No, ma,am.”

Ms. Shelby lowered her voice. “Shelbies watch out for each other. And if I ever catch you screwing Tommy over, or screwing Tommy _at all_ , there will be consequences.”

Emma suppressed a sigh.

Ms. Shelby’s eyebrow dragged itself up to her hairline, and she rocked back on her heels, inspecting Emma. “Problem?”

“No, ma’am,” Emma replied honestly, and politely. “But within the span of two weeks, I have covered up for attempted murder, been alternately threatened with death and ‘consequences’, and I am currently forging a letter from a Russian official. I can say with perfect honesty that I am beginning to rethink my choice of profession.”

Ms. Shelby snorted, rolling her eyes and visibly relaxing. “You and I both.”

Emma smiled. They stood there for a moment in silence, until Emma spoke again. “Ma’am?”

“Yes?”

“If I may inquire, what was her name?”

Ms. Shelby’s head snapped around, her eyes locking onto Emma’s severely. “Who?”

Emma swallowed, hoping she wouldn’t regret this. “The blonde-haired lady on the wall. The one in the picture, with Mr. Shelby and his son.”

“That’s Grace,” Ms. Shelby replied curtly. “ _Mr. Shelby’s_ wife. And she’s dead,” she added as Emma opened her mouth again.

“Oh,” Emma said quietly, taken aback.

Ms. Shelby furrowed her brows. “Surely you’re not _surprised?_ You don’t seem unintelligent. Surely if you’ve never seen her and she’s in a picture with Mr. Shelby and their son?”

“No, Ms. Shelby,” Emma said quickly. “Not surprised. It’s just… sad. If you don’t mind me asking-,”

“Bullet.” Ms. Shelby laughed bitterly. “Another nail in the coffin of your hopes for a calm employment.”

Emma had to smile at that.

“Miss Wolsworth?”

Both of them turned towards the office door. Her employer was sticking his head out the door. “In here, please.”

Ms. Shelby shot him a sharp look, turning to walk away down the hall and out the door with a backwards glance and nod for Emma. Emma gulped, turning to slip through the closing door. “Yes, Mr. Shelby?”

He was already sitting at his desk, hands braced on either side. He put a cigarette to his lips, then waved it briefly around in the air before replacing his hand on the desk. “That was quite a fiasco, this morning.”

“Yes, Mr. Shelby.” Emma hoped she wasn’t about to have to find new employment.

“No more.” Mr. Shelby cleared his throat, leaning back in his chair to look at her properly. “From now on, _you_ replace the decanter.”

Emma frowned. That was a maid’s duty, not a secretary’s. “Sir-,”

“Miss Wolsworth- Emma. May I call you Emma?”

Emma opened her mouth to answer, but was cut off abruptly. “Emma, you are under my employment, are you not?”

“Yes, but...”

“My sister,” Mr. Shelby paused to take a drag on his cigarette. “has kindly informed me that I am not to fuck you, or to fuck with you. So quite simply, you have two options. You can do what I say or you can find new employment. So, what’ll it be?”

Emma bit her tongue, biting back a million smart-alec retorts. “What time would you like me to replace the decanter?”

“Morning. You can bring me my mail at the same time.”

Now this really was too much. The mail was a footman’s job! Emma opened her mouth to protest, but nothing came out but, “Yes, sir.”

“Good.” Mr. Shelby smirked at her, his cold, dead eyes betraying no real emotion.

 

Later that night, Emma was striding furiously down the passage. Who did he think he was, giving her orders to be a footman and maid in addition to her other duties? She turned the corner and, pushing past the green baize door, descended down the steps and turned into the kitchen, only to leap back into the passageway, her hand clapped over her mouth.

She slowly approached the doorway once again, only to see quite possibly the most disturbing thing she had seen in Mr. Shelby’s employ yet.

A cloud of steam filled the kitchen, two letters lying on the table. As Emma watched, a female figure carefully put down her pen and resealed an envelope, tucking the copy she’d made of the letter into her apron. Quickly, and as quietly as she could, Emma turned and walked towards the servants’ hall.

Madge was spying on Mr. Shelby.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical Note: Steaming letters open is indeed a real technique, and quite an old one. You can do it so that you can read the letter and then put it back in and the recipient will neeeeeeever know. 
> 
> Please don't ask why I know this. You don't want to know. 
> 
> Next update on 3/29/2018. Mark your calendars!


	5. Caused By Steam

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emma likes knowing things. Tommy can't argue with that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here goes nothing. Enjoy!

“Emma?”  
Emma jumped, startled. Her employer was staring at her. Blushing, Emma set down the tray holding the decanter and tumblers and turned to face him, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. Her usual neat-as-a-pin blonde hair was a little looser in its updo this morning; she’d been so distracted by what she’d seen.  
Mr. Shelby’s sigh brought her back down to earth. “I asked if there was a problem.”  
Emma stared at him. Yes, sir. Your maid is a Russian spy.  
“Emma?”  
“No, sir. Sorry, sir.”  
Emma scurried out the door, barely noticing Mr. Shelby’s scoff as she mentally berated her own cowardice.  
All day it plagued her. She ought to tell him; but how? And how to save Madge from being held at gunpoint? Emma sighed. All her other employers had kept her on edge about the neatness of her handwriting or the speed at which they could dictate to her.  
Mr. Shelby kept her on edge about whether he was going to shoot his maid.  
Who was a spy?  
A Russian spy.  
This was quite definitely not what she had in mind when she applied for the post of secretary.

* * *

That night, she managed to work up the courage to approach him.  
“Mr. Shelby, I need to talk to you about something.”  
He threw down his pen. The younger Mr. Shelby, the one married to the gypsy girl, was in the room, breathing heavily, as if they’d just had an argument. “Emma, I don’t give a fuck whether bringing up a fucking tray of whisky is a maid’s job-,”  
“Mr. Shelby, it isn’t that.” He sighed, rubbing his face with his hands. Emma fidgeted nervously, glancing at Mr. Shelby Jr, who looked mildly intrigued. “Yesterday night, I happened upon one of the maids in the kitchen.”  
“And?” It was Mr. Shelby Jr. speaking now, but she could feel Mr. Shelby’s eyes on her as well.  
Emma took a deep breath. “She was steaming your letters open, Mr. Shelby. The ones from the Russians.”  
“Fuck,” hissed Mr. Shelby Jr. “Fucking little-,”  
“Steady on, John,” said her employer calmly, though if the glittering rage in Mr. Shelby’s eyes was any indication, he wasn’t any calmer about this than his little brother. He pointed a finger directly at Emma. “You, go down, bring her up.”  
Emma hesitated. “What’ll you do to her?”  
John scoffed. Tommy looked up at her, that dangerous calm still lurking in his face. “That’s none of your concern, now is it?”  
Emma took a deep breath. “Might I suggest an alternate course of action?”  
Mr. Shelby frowned at her, and Mr. Shelby Jr. scoffed audibly. “I’m sorry, I thought I hired a secretary, not a personal advisor.”  
Emma’s temper flared. “Yes, Mr. Shelby. You hired a secretary, not a maid, a forger, a footman, or an actress.”  
Mr. Shelby seemed to consider this, then leant back in his chair, beckoning in the air. “Out with it.”  
Emma took another deep breath to steady herself. “Madge- that’s our treacherous maid- doesn’t know I’ve seen her. In short, you know whatever you tell anyone, the Russians will know, but she doesn’t know you know. And why does she know?”  
Mr. Shelby Jr. looked utterly lost, but Mr. Shelby seemed to follow. “Go on.”  
Emma continued, her voice growing stronger. “Because, Mr. Shelby, you put your mail in the outbound tray, and that goes through the maids, who post it. But if you wrote two sets of letters; one with the information you want the Russians to know, and one with the one you don’t- you could put the ones you want the Russians to read in the post box, and you could hire a courier to take the others directly to the office.”  
Mr. Shelby Jr. spoke up. “Why not just directly take them there?”  
Emma turned towards him, hesitating as she cast a nervous glance towards her employer. He nodded, his eyes glittering and cold, so she answered. “The whole point is to avoid suspicion by not changing any part of the regular routine to the outside eye.”  
“And I regularly hire couriers, do I,” breathed Mr. Shelby through a cloud of smoke, leaning forward in his chair. “No.” He stubbed his cigarette in the ashtray, standing up. “But here’s what you’re going to do. You’re going to go for a walk every morning and every evening. You’re going to wear your coat. And if you find an envelope in your coat pocket, you’re going to post it.”  
Emma lifted her chin. “Sir, I repeat. I am a secretary. I am already carrying more weight than befits my position and salary.”  
He picked up on her implication. “Money is not an issue.” His eyes met his brothers’ before they swiveled back to focus on her. “You’ll get a raise, of course.”  
Emma let out a long breath. “Thank you, sir.” Trying to ignore both Shelbies’ gazes burning hotly into her back, she turned on her heel and walked across the Persian carpet, her footsteps slowing as she reached the door. She came to a full stop just inside the library, turning suddenly to look at him. “Mr. Shelby?”  
“Yes, Emma?”  
Emma chose to ignore his mocking tone and his brother’s snort in favor of pursuing her thought. “It occurs to me that your housekeeper keeps tabs on your finances in the process of controlling orders for the maintenance of the household.”  
“And?” He cocked his head at her. Mr. Shelby Jr. looked lost again, but she could see a little understanding in her employer’s eyes. He already knew where she was going with this, but not what she wanted.  
“Well, sir,” Emma hesitated, “it occurs to me that a sudden raise might come off as suspicious.”  
“If you don’t want the money, don’t take the job. He’ll find someone else. No Shelby’s going to be indebted to some bloody secretary.”  
Emma looked at the fair-haired Shelby who had spoken in mild surprise at his fighting words. “I wouldn’t want them to be, Mr. Shelby.” Her gaze traveled back to her employer. “I had a different kind of payment in mind.”  
“Oh, and what would that be?”  
“Access to your books, Mr. Shelby.” Emma exhaled in slight relief at the truth coming out. “Simply put, the permission to borrow a book when I come in every morning; and to put it back and take a new one at night.”  
Mr. Shelby remained impassive, looking at her coldly. For a long time they stood there, staring each other down. Mr. Shelby still didn’t look away as he asked, “Only during times you would enter the library anyways.”  
“Understood.” She wasn’t in a position to set conditions anyway.  
“You don’t touch anything on the desk.”  
“Understood, sir.”  
“You like books?”  
Emma thought about it. “Not necessarily, sir.”  
He frowned. “Then?”  
“I like knowing things,” said Emma slowly, chewing the words over in her mind. Even to herself, they felt like a revelation. “To know things, one must learn them. To learn them, one must read them. To read them…” Emma turned her gaze squarely on him. “One needs access to books.”  
Mr. Shelby appraised her coolly, doubtless analyzing her proposal for any loopholes that called for closure. Evidently, he found none, because he idly waved a hand. “Agreed.”  
Emma scurried out before he could change his mind.

* * *

That night, she finally took the time to look at the cover. Debrett’s, it said simply. Emma was not too much of an outcast from high society to recognize the book as Debrett’s Peerage And Baronetage. Not the most scintillating read, but where knowing things was concerned…

* * *

Her heart was racing with the exhilaration of knowledge as she slipped the book back onto its shelf, turning to face her employer.  
For the first time, she noticed the apparent disarray he was in.  
“Sir?”  
He had his elbows on the desk, the ashtray full upon the desk. His hair was clenched tight in his hands, and at her query he let go to slam his fists into the desk, rocketing up to face Emma, breathing heavily, seemingly panicked. Emma took an unconscious step back.  
“Sir, are you…. Are you alright?”  
Emma wavered near the end as the question only seemed to enrage him more. He took a step forwards, thrusting his hand out towards a chalkboard he had inexplicably dragged in the last day. On it were all sorts of calculations, all seeming to centre on someone, or something called Epsom, of all names?  
“No, Emma,” he replied with as much as aggression as a sleep-deprived cigarette addict who, from what she could tell, barely ate, could muster. “Unless you can tell me how the fuck Lord Stuck-Up Toff is tied up with Lady Snub-nosed and whether I can use the possibility of a marriage between two fucking toffs who may or may not be related to my advantage or not, I’m not alright. And as for all intents and purposes, you are a useless fucking puppet, I’m guessing you can’t.”  
The last part stung a little, but moreover was the exhilaration of her new-found knowledge being put to use so promptly. “No, sir, I can’t.”  
He exhaled, pulling at his hair, again. “Well, then.”  
Quickly, Emma turned to pull out the book she’d just put back. “But I know where to find out.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical Note: Debrett's is a company in the etiquette business that was founded back in 1769. Back then, you could just say "Debrett's" because everyone would know you meant "Debrett's Peerage And Baronetage", which was a book of all the titled families in England. People based LIVES off this thing. They would look at it and say, "ok, so if my 3 yr old daughter marries this duke when she's old enough, the money will go here.... or, she'll get this title...." Baptisms and betrothals alike were scheduled and cancelled for Debrett's. People also used it to map out where the money was going, because girls couldn't inherit; so if you were rich and had an estate and no sons, then your money might get given to some random stranger. This was a thing, people.  
> The whole "knowing rich and elite better than they know themselves" is also a historical inside joke. Believe it or not, the elite would have "family historians" to know the family history and know absolutely next to nothing about it themselves, LOL.
> 
> Next update on 4/2/2018

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know if you'd like me to continue.


End file.
